


Tom Riddle and his Rise to Power

by Thoughtlessness



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Magic, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Horcruxes, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Rise of Voldemort, Teenage Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle's Diary, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-27 18:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14432001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thoughtlessness/pseuds/Thoughtlessness
Summary: A detailed backstory of You Know Who - involving Tom Riddle's time at the orphanage, his later school years and his eventual rise to power - becoming the Dark Lord Voldemort. Most parts are kept as close as possible to the original book series by J.K.Rowling (sometimes also including movie facts), trying to shed some light on Tom M. Riddle's personality, struggles and flaws. The story follows his quest to conquer death and achieve ultimate power.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have always been fascinated by Tom Riddle, even more so than by his future powerful self Lord Voldemort. While I adore J.K.Rowling's books, I have always felt that there were parts missing. For example, why Tom Riddle was supposed to be evil since childhood, why he wanted to become immortal, how he found out about Horcruxes and what the procedure involved, his interactions with students at Hogwarts and with the other kids from the orphanage, how he managed to escape the Ministry of Magic several times and, finally, the circumstances of the first Wizarding war. There is just so much more to explore about this amazingly well constructed villain that I felt the urge to take it upon myself and write it out. I truly hope you enjoy it.

**Prologue**

 

The moon was new and its feeble light did not manage to penetrate the thick and heavy blanket of clouds that covered the sky and suffocated the fainted glow of faraway stars. Night had fallen and cloaked the wet and dirty streets of London in complete darkness, while heavy rain was splashing onto the pavement and ran down the gutter, washing away the filth. In midst of the deserted alley, a tiny figure was stumbling forward, clutching her swollen belly and breathing strenuously. The young woman knew that she did not have much time left, it could happen every moment now. Desperation was pushing her onward, urging her to move, take larger steps. If only she could make it to safety in time. The thought of having to give birth out here in the cold was so terrifying, that she ignored her exhaustion and kept going. She could see a light emanating from one of the windows of a shabby, run-down building with cold, unwelcoming brick walls. It was glowing like a beacon of hope amidst the discouraging darkness. A new wave of energy flooded her quivering body, but just then, a painful contraction robbed her of her breath and forced her to her knees. Her sight blurred, her eyes were bulging. Gasping and heaving, she made one last effort to get up and struggled to her frozen feet. The temperature had now dropped below zero and she shivered violently, tugging her wet coat tighter around her skinny chest. Her robes were soggy and mud stained, making it harder and harder to move. Tears ran down her cheeks and mixed with the layers of soot covering her face. Despite her poor constitution, she dragged herself to the cast-iron gate and collapsed in front of the sign that read _Wool’s Orphanage._ Her eyes slowly drifted out of focus and a snarling voice kept echoing through her head, repeating the same sentence over and over again. _You tricked me, you witch. This marriage is null and void, this is no child of mine!_ She whimpered feebly and cradled her trembling body with her arms. But as the minutes ticked by, she did not feel the cold anymore, nor the icy rain that pierced her skin like needles. She simply closed her eyes, hoping she’d just … die. And so, she did not notice the woman that came rushing towards her, carrying a blanket in one and a lantern in the other hand.

  
Mrs Cole had been reading her favourite novel, sitting in her comfortable puffy chair and stretching her worn-out feet closer to the fire place, when she had heard a wet thud from somewhere outside the building. Curious, as she was, she had gazed out of the window into the rainy night and spotted a petite woman collapsed in front of the gates. Another citizen would likely not have cared and left the woman to her fate, but Mrs Cole was different. She was no stranger to nightly visitations of desperate children, looking for a place to spend the night, or a woman, running from her husband, or a cast out girl, pregnant with a bastard baby. No, these were all part of her everyday-life. With trained routine, she had gathered a woolly blanket, grabbed the lantern on her bedside table and lit the candle inside.

“Martha,” she had shouted, “will you please prepare one of our spare rooms, I believe we have a guest tonight.”

Not waiting for Martha to reply, she had taken the stairs down to the main entrance and approached the pitiful mess in her soaked clothes with long, confident steps.

After fumbling for the key a little longer than usual due to the cold crippling her fingers, she finally opened the rusty iron gate, wrapped the blanket tightly around the girl and carried the nearly weightless bundle of dirt and rags inside the building. Martha had shrieked in horror when Mrs Cole had placed the barely breathing lump on a freshly prepared bed in room 12. Mrs Cole did not blame her, that girl truly was in dire condition! Emaciated to the very bones and heavily pregnant. A glance of her trained eyes was enough to tell her that the baby would have to come now. With firm hands, Mrs Cole tried to rouse the girl from her deadly sleep while Martha was rubbing her body with dry blankets. The young woman finally opened her eyes with fluttering lids and glanced at the two women with a glassy stare.

“You have to push!” Mrs Cole spoke. “Otherwise both you and your child will die.”

The girl closed her eyes once more, nodded in silent understanding, and then, with a heart-breaking groan escaping her bloodless lips, tried to push the baby out of her womb.

  
The birth had nearly taken four hours but eventually, a tiny boy had entered this world in a pool of his mother’s blood. Mrs Cole had known right away that she would not survive and now tried to speak words of comfort to the dying mother.

“Everything is fine, my dear. The boy is alive and healthy.”  
Then, she added, “What is your name, girl?”

The young woman offered her a weak smile and answered in a stifled voice, “Merope. Merope Riddle.”  

Mrs Cole had never heard that name before, but before she could reply, the woman named Merope tried to speak again. Even though her words were barely audible, she spoke with determination.

“Please,” she whispered, “look after my boy.”

A deep, rattling cough shook her body and she had to pause until the attack subsided. Mrs Cole glanced at her with a compassionate look and slightly jumped at the sudden feeling of long, icy fingers grasping at her hand. A feverish spark lit up Merope’s eyes and blood was leaking from the corner of her mouth. With immense effort, she spoke again.  The urgent undertone in her trembling voice did not escape Mrs Cole’s attention.

“His name is Tom. Tom Marvolo. I want to … to name him after his father and his grandfather.”

Merope’s eyes fixed on Mrs Cole, as if to underline the importance of her last words. Then, she fell back onto her blood soaked linen and exhaled one last time, before her eyes became empty orbs, reflecting the dim ambient light emitted by a nearly burnt down candle.

  
Mrs Cole covered the maltreated corpse that once was Merope Riddle with a spare blanket and picked up the baby boy, who lay in a cradle beside his mother’s death bed. Mrs Cole wrapped him tightly in a cosy, woollen towel and placed him back into the cot. His unusually dark eyes examined her face with an eerie intelligence. It was only then that she realised, he had not uttered a single sound since his birth.


	2. A Meeting in the Common Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the first chapter takes place many years after the Prologue, there will be chapters with flashbacks to explore some of Tom's early experiences. Let me know if you have suggestions or remarks. I am curious about your opinion.

**Chapter 1**

**A Meeting in the Common Room**

  
Tom was aware that he could not fool Dumbledore. Even though he had given his best performance during their last conversation, Dumbledore had somehow been able to spot his lie. Not that he had said anything, but the piercing look of his bright blue eyes had eliminated all doubts.

“Is there something you wish to tell me, Tom?” he had asked, eying him with a suspicious glance from behind his half-moon spectacles.

Since the incident with the Mudblood and the dumb, half giant kid, Dumbledore had questioned him at least twice. Of course, with no other purpose than to poke at Tom’s mind with obnoxious questions about how he had found out about Rubeus’ pet and whether he thought it likely that this gigantic spider was capable of killing in such a manner … or whether there was more to it. Tom knew that this was merely Dumbledore’s try at wearing him down. As if he was so stupid to let anything slip. Only people with a bad conscience felt the need to unburden themselves – or tripped over a badly constructed lie. Lucky for him, he did not possess a conscience. He prided himself upon it. Feeling sorry for others was a weakness he refused to indulge in. If there was something he despised with almost equal hatred as filthy Mudbloods, it was human weakness. Although to him, human weakness usually meant compassion, love, trust and fear. They were so easy to exploit. His favourite occupation - apart from studying everything there was about the dark arts - was to capitalise on other people’s biggest weakness, using it against them, blackmailing them with their dirty little secrets or hurting them for fun. He was well aware that if he told anyone about his previous misdeeds, he would likely be expelled from Hogwarts and put under surveillance by the Ministry of Magic. Pathetic lot they were, so easily mislead and distracted. He smirked and tucked his messy hair back. Others would have been scared knowing that Dumbledore had figured out their secret, but not Tom. He knew Dumbledore better than most teachers in this school, and Dumbledore him.

The Transfiguration teacher had gotten to know an eleven-year-old Tom before he had put up the farce of the well-spoken and hard-working pupil, he had glimpsed behind the black velvety curtain of Tom’s mind that he shielded so carefully from curious minds. Yet, there was nothing Dumbledore could do about it. No doubt that he was a great wizard and smarter than most, but there was no evidence, no proof that he, Tom, was guilty of opening the Chamber of Secrets, releasing the monster and killing a Ravenclaw Muggle-born called Myrtle Warren. No one would believe Dumbledore over a charming, gifted and most lawful fifth year student. His good looks, his ability to sense what other people wanted most and his talent for manipulation had gotten him very far in Hogwarts. This year, he had even received a Special Award for Services to the School for helping in the capture and arrest of the student who opened the Chamber of Secrets. At the very beginning of his fifth year, he had been named prefect of his house. No one had an inkling of his hidden depths. Slowly but steadily, he was climbing up the ladder of power.

True power was influence, loyalty based not on feeble human relationships but enforced through fear and terror. True power was to defeat human needs and mortality. He sought power above all else, because it was all that mattered in this world. He had figured that out during his early years in Wool’s Orphanage. Tom had been the outsider among outsiders. The special one, the one everyone had taunted. Because he had been weird and scary with his strange abilities. Kids had been horrible to him, so he had returned the favour tenfold. Making use of his magical gift to torture them, scare them and rob them of their possessions, few that they had. This feeling of superiority and power had been what had kept him alive – and still did. It had set him apart from the rest. He had learnt when it was more beneficial to appear as the docile and ever so charming student and when it was safe to let the cat out to play. Yes, he was better than they were, the Muggles and the Mudbloods. Because he was the best wizard in the history of Hogwarts. He had scored top marks in all his classes, was adored by teachers and students alike. All of which confirmed his strong belief that he was much more than _just_ a wizard. Hence, the discovery that his father had never attended Hogwarts and his weak, deceased mother must have been the parent of Wizarding descent had been a huge disappointment to him. What purpose did magic serve if not sparing a wizard from the fate of death? The sheer thought that he did not have complete control, that death would triumph in the end, was a blow to his ego and an insult to his abilities. Had he been capable of admitting it, he had even called it fear.

These days there were two topics that bothered him above all else: the humiliating truth of being the son of a Muggle father and not being able to defeat mortality. He had spent countless nights in the library, scouring books about Wizarding history, family lineages and prefect lists to finally accept that his father had never set foot into Hogwarts. When he had turned towards his mother’s family, all he had found was a man named Marvolo Gaunt, and his son, Morphin Gaunt, who had been arrested and taken to Azkaban. Tom had realised that this was no coincidence. Tracing the family name back to Salazar Slytherin himself and the fact that he, just like Slytherin, was a parselmouth, had confirmed his assumption. He had always known that he was special, different of sorts, more important than others. The fact that he was the heir of Salazar Slytherin had furthered his hatred of Muggle-borns and his obsession with pure-blood status. Every Muggle he had known had either been weak or mean and all of them had lacked the essential ability to produce magic, which, in Tom’s mind, meant they were lesser beings. They did not deserve to stand as equals beside true wizards, those of pure and ancient blood lineage. It was then that he had decided he would purge the world from these filthy Muggles and Muggle-born scum. A shiver went through his body. He felt abysmal rage boiling underneath the surface. His father had abandoned him and his mother, despite her being a witch. He and Tom’s blood traitor mother had condemned him to grow up in an orphanage filled with Muggle bullies. His _father_ , whose dirty blood ran through his veins, had left _him_. Tom clenched his jaw. Little did his father know that, one day, he would become the best and most terrifying sorcerer the world had ever seen, ridding this earth from unworthy vermin that had driven wizards into hiding and sullied the lineages of powerful pure-blood families.

Lost in thought, plotting revenge and conjuring up plans of future grandeur, he was walking down the long, dimly lit corridor and took the stairs that led down to the dungeons and Slytherin’s common room. Just when he was about to speak the password to enter the portal, he was ripped from his trance-like state and stopped short when a young, black-haired girl stepped in his way, inspecting him with an excited expression in her eyes.

“Tom, you’re late. We aren’t allowed to walk the corridors at night. What kept you?” Obviously, she had been waiting for him.

But he did not feel like answering her. In fact, had there not been the risk of getting caught, he would have cursed her right there. Her name was Morena Beaufort and she was a Slytherin in her fourth year. Her infatuation with him had been most annoying. She followed him everywhere, questioning him on his marks, his friends, his whereabouts. However - of course -  without getting a reply apart from the occasional, “ _be quiet and leave me alone, Morena”_. His dark eyes menacingly narrowed, he merely growled at her in a low voice and stepped through the portal inside the common room. Sitting on an arm chair, the book _Offensive and Defensive Magic – A comprehensive collection of the most useful spells_ opened in his lab, sat Avery, shooting Tom a curious glance. His eyes travelled back and forth between the black-haired girl and Tom.

“Go to your dormitory Morena and leave us be,” he ordered her. But Morena did not move. Instead, she expectantly looked up to Tom, as if it was only his word that mattered.

Tom examined her, pathetic that she was, and wondered how it could be that his constant refusal of her advances fuelled her obsession. While he knew how to deal with male admirers or fellow ambitious wizards, he despised the interaction with love-struck girls. They required so much patience, so much more emotional exercise, that he had stopped engaging with them altogether unless it could not be helped. Morena however had become such a nuisance that he figured it was time to twist and break her, just a little.

He turned towards her and bowed down, close enough so that only she could hear, and whispered through gritted teeth, “Do you think I would ever be interested in you? You are nothing but a pathetic and silly little girl. Ugly, inside and out.”  
Then he hissed silently, “You. Are. Worthless!”  
Stressing every word, observing her initially gleeful expression fading into a mask of utter shame and sadness. With another fierce look of his pitch black eyes he added - a little louder this time -, “So keep your distance … and your mouth _shut_.”

He knew it was rather reckless to show his true colours in front of students that did not belong to his gang. But he was certain that she was not going to tell anyone. No-one, except for Dumbledore, would believe her anyways, and Morena did not know that Dumbledore suspected him already. Her pale face became ghostly white and her hazel eyes widened in fear. Despite her crush on him, she realised that it was best not to reply. The danger he posed was tangible. His icy voice was devoid of any warmth and even his usual glib had vanished entirely. She nodded. Utterly humiliated and deeply terrified she sped out of the room towards the girls’ dormitory, clutching her face with her trembling hands, trying to hide the tears that were now continuously streaming down her cheeks.

Avery cocked an eyebrow.

“What did you tell her?”

Tom shrugged with a mischievous smile plastered across his handsome face.

“She won’t bother me again.”

Avery felt a slight chill in the air. From an outside perspective, one could assume that he, amongst a few other Slytherin boys, was friends with Tom. But he knew better. Underneath that smooth surface of Tom Marvolo Riddle stirred a dangerous and immensely powerful personality. They all feared him just as much as they respected him. His aura of power and innate authority made him an excellent leader that no one dared to cross.

 “I am glad the school didn’t close for good,” said Avery, trying to break the awkward silence that had befallen the room.

 “Indeed,” Tom sneered. “For you, it would have been boring home-life, while for me…”

He shot Avery a testing look and paused.

“Wool’s Orphanage,” he finally grunted, his face distorted with disgust and hatred.

It had been a shame that he had had to call back his basilisk and shut the gates of the Chamber of Secrets. But he could not risk for the school to close. Hogwarts was the closest he had ever known to be a home and he felt he was not yet ready to leave for good. There was much more he could learn and discover. This place was full of treasures, secret passages and mysterious rooms, and he would find and unravel them all.

 

Avery gazed at Tom. It was rare that his classmate spoke of his life outside of Hogwarts and he suddenly realised that he knew nothing about Tom’s birth family nor his life circumstances at the orphanage. Sometimes, he almost felt sorry for him. But then he reminded himself that it was probably the rest of the orphans he should pity, for Tom was not the victim type. On the contrary. If he found out that Avery pitied him, he would have ended up as a corpse alongside Myrtle. While Tom had never confirmed this, Avery had suspected him of Myrtle’s murder for quite some time now. There was no one else capable of opening the Chamber of Secrets and no one with more intent to kill Muggle-borns. Sure, they all talked a great deal about killing worthless Mudbloods, but none of them had the guts to act on it. No-one, except for Tom. Most teachers and pupils were blinded by the prefect’s polite and charming personality. However, Avery had soon realised that this was merely a face he put up. A mask, designed for those he intended to manipulate. Sometimes he wondered how Tom could be that good of an actor. Like a snake encircling his prey, he drew them in with his charm, and once they were caught, he could make them do just about anything. There was a little bit of jealousy involved, Avery admitted to himself, but he was glad to have chosen the right side. He did not dare to imagine how bad it would get for those on the receiving end of Tom’s wrath.

 

Tom ignored Avery’s sudden silence and moved towards the second empty arm chair standing in the corner closest to the fire place. He stared into the whispering flames and watched them eating away at the cracking wood. Tom enjoyed fire and admired its destructive force. They were very much alike: never satiated, burning from the inside out and feeding off the ones easiest to break.

 

With a muffled “clunk” the portal opened once again and Lestrange entered the common room, finding Tom and Avery seated in an arm chair, both cloaked in complete silence.

 “Tom,” Lestrange addressed him, “you were summoned by Dumbledore…again? What did he want this time?”

Tom answered without turning around. It almost seemed as if he had expected Lestrange all along.

“He did. The same, really. Thinks there is more to it, thinks I opened the Chamber of Secrets.”

Lestrange shifted uncomfortably in his position.

“You did it though, didn’t you?”

Tom stood up and faced Lestrange, his arms loosely crossed in front of his chest.

“What do _you_ think?” he scoffed, and started pacing the room with slow, measured steps.

“Well…I know that only a great wizard and descendant of Salazar Slytherin could have opened it… and since you are a great wizard…,” Lestrange hesitated. This could go both ways and he did not want to say the wrong thing.

“I asked you about your opinion,” Tom repeated in a calm, indifferent voice with an icy undertone.

Lestrange seemed to shrink in his height by the second.

Tom noticed the scared look plastered across his face. He enjoyed these little moments, enforcing his position as the one in charge. He did not regard them as friends, even though he said so, they were his foot soldiers, his future army. Expendable as individuals but necessary as a group. He tolerated them but sometimes had to restrain himself from taunting them too much.

A fake grin twitched the corner of his small-lipped mouth and hollow laughter filled the room as he stopped pacing and causally leaned against the fire place. His silhouette was surrounded by the bright red glow of the licking flames, casting a long shadow across the room.  

“It does not matter whether you think I did it or not. All that matters is that you are supporting the mind-set, that you are loyally standing _behind_ me.”

There it was, the unspoken threat of “ _Don’t you dare question me!”_ and Lestrange was quick to respond with a hurried, “Of course, I do. Of course, I do!” while stepping further into the room.

Tom examined Lestrange with a look of pure disdain. Lestrange possessed even less of a spine that Avery. But they were both devoted to him and supported his cause. They had grown up in pure-blood families, despising Muggle-born scum. Tom regretted not belonging to a pure-blood family himself, but they did not need to know this. Not yet. Not while he had not properly dealt with the issue himself.

He cleared his throat theatrically and headed towards the boys’ dormitory. Just before he left the common room, he halted and spoke in a commanding tone, “We should all find some sleep. After all, we shall not give anyone reason to doubt our investment in this school… nor our conviction to aim high.” Then, he stepped through the magically warded door and followed the corridor leading up to the boys’ dormitory. Lestrange and Avery audibly exhaled, exchanged a look, then nodded and went to bed as well.

 

 

Dumbledore was restless that evening. His chat with Tom had confirmed his assumption. While it did not surprise him that his suspicions were justified, as they often turned out to be, it still worried him beyond measure with how much ease Tom had produced a lie. Ever since he had collected him from Wool’s Orphanage, he had feared that Tom would one day slip and drift into the dark arts. That much power and ambition in one, heavily flawed individual was seldom a good sign. For he knew what it could cause. Painful memories of Grindelwald entered his mind – the once cheerful boy that grew up to bring about one of the darkest times in Wizarding history. A war that was still moving closer, rampaging through Europe, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake and continued to swallow countless Muggle and wizard lives alike. Tom possessed all characteristics to become the greatest wizard of all time, but he was going down the same path that Grindelwald had chosen before him. If only there was something he could do. He had no proof of Tom’s crime and, quite frankly, was not entirely sure if he wanted him to get arrested by the Ministry of Magic. Tom could sway them with little effort and if not, Dumbledore did not want to condemn him to a fate behind bars. After all, Tom was simply a teenager. Part of Dumbledore still had this silly shimmer of hope that the promising pupil would find his way back into the light, that he would discover remorse and seek redemption. But after tonight, that shimmer had shone a little less bright. Dumbledore had asked him questions about his goals, his thoughts concerning the Chamber of Secrets, his ambitions and what he thought about the concept of love.

It might have seemed a little odd for a teacher to question a pupil about his private relationships but this was not what Dumbledore had wanted from Tom. Tom had been evasive, polite, recited what he had obviously rehearsed in case Dumbledore wanted to talk to him again. But Tom had not been prepared for the question about love. It had irritated him and his usual calm demeanour had started to crumble.

“ _Love_?” he had asked, visibly bemused. “I do not concern myself with love, professor,” he had replied.

 “But you do concern yourself with power and influence,” Dumbledore had countered.

Then he had added, “When really, the most powerful influence of all is love. Love conquers all, even death.”

At that note, Tom had seemed taken aback, slightly moving away from Dumbledore, looking daggers at him. Dumbledore had seen it then: the confusion, the disbelief and disgust in Tom’s face. Now, shortly after they had last talked, Dumbledore was sure that Tom’s biggest flaw was not his blind ambition, his investment in the dark arts, not even his wish to be admired. No, in Dumbledore’s opinion, Tom’s worst attribute was his missing capacity for love. Tom could not grab the concept nor the importance of it. Sadly, Dumbledore knew that without love, without the ability to form social bonds, Tom would stay isolated and all he cared about was himself, which meant, he had no conscience to guide him - and without a conscience, there was nothing that kept him from committing crimes such as opening the Chamber of Secrets and murdering an innocent child.

A shame for such a talented young boy to not comprehend that glory and purity of blood was not what really mattered in this world, when purity of heart was. Dumbledore sighed and adjusted his half-moon spectacles that had dropped to his long, cooked nose. He would continue to keep an eye on Tom, ready to intervene if necessary. The reason why he had not done so before was based on a conversation they had had a few weeks back. Tom had asked Dippet if he could stay in Hogwarts over the summer break and Dippet had declined his request, for Hogwarts was about to close due to the horrible incident of Myrtle Warren’s death. When the terror of the Chamber of Secrets had subsided, Tom had come to Dumbledore and requested his assistance in the attempt to convince Dippet to allow him to stay at Hogwarts. Apart from the fact that Dumbledore had suspected him already of opening the Chamber of Secrets – and closing it again, he had seen real emotion in Tom that day. His student’s wish to stay at Hogwarts, the only home he had ever known, seemed so human, so understandable. Despite Dumbledore not being able to help Riddle out with his request, he had felt for him. He was an orphan after all, growing up without parents, without anyone to explain to him what magic was, what a wizard was, or the difference between right and wrong. Tom had never experienced love. How could anyone expect a socially well-adjusted boy to emerge from such a wreckage of a childhood? Against better judgement, possibly to redeem himself for previous failures with Grindelwald, Dumbledore had muzzled his dark suspicions but kept a close watch on Tom, summoning him to his office twice in two weeks, to see whether he deserved another chance. He had spoken to other teachers too, but none of them had noticed a change in Tom’s behaviour. He was the perfect student: incredibly polite, attentive, smart and hard working. But that was at Hogwarts, where his every move could be scrutinised. Soon, Tom would have to go back to the orphanage and spend the summer there, beyond Dumbledore’s reach.

Dumbledore let himself fall back into his chair. He was exhausted. Being blessed with the gift of a keen and perceptive mind was not always easy. For now, he would just have to wait and see. Ultimately, only Tom could redirect his fate.


	3. The Rat among Mice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter updates will be following about once a week. A lot of the chapters are ready to be posted. However, I thought it best to revise them once more.

**Chapter 2**

**The Rat among Mice**

 

The last week of June had passed excruciatingly slow, as – even though they had just experienced a huge tragedy at the school – the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s had still taken place. Nobody had been prepared and had complained about how unfair this was, except for Tom. He had managed every exam effortlessly. But as soon as the last exam had been written and the quill laid aside, the atmosphere had changed. Students of all houses had been celebrating, excitedly awaiting the train ride back to their parents, looking forward to well-deserved holidays. Tom had joined the cheerful bunch the evening before, but just for appearances. Night had fallen and the Slytherin dorm room was eerily quiet. Tom stretched his legs and stared up towards the wooden ceiling ornamented with carved snakes and decorated with green drapes. But his mind was still brooding over the imminent, dreadful event of taking the train back to London. Tom hated the thought of returning to Wool’s Orphanage. He sighed at the prospect of returning _home_. The corners of his mouth twitched in disgust, it had long been clear to him that he had no home. He had never had one except for Hogwarts and now they did not allow him to stay over the summer break. It had angered him, even hurt him. He loathed the orphanage, he loathed its smell, its noise, its… children. Babies crying at night, so weak, so dependent. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He had always hated the sound of weeping children.

   
The following morning dawned warm and bright, with a rosy glow adorning the cloudless sky. Tom however did not notice the beautiful weather nor the prickling sunlight, as he joined the rest of his classmates in the dining hall. Loud and noisy chatter welcomed him and everyone appeared to be in a good mood. It had always seemed rather odd to him, how inconsistent and unbalanced most people’s moods were. Had they no power, no control over themselves? Had everything they were thinking and feeling to be spilled? He invisibly shook his head with contempt. How inferior they were – and they did not even know it. If his fellow students or teachers had had to describe Tom’s mood, they would have used the words serious, earnest and balanced. This however was not necessarily the case. While it was true that he did not experience frequent bursts of joy nor suffer crashes of sadness, he did have quite a temper that was getting harder and harder to conceal. His building anger towards the ignorant Muggle community and Dumbledore’s incessant questioning required constant appeasement, which usually involved psychological abuse of other students. Last week’s incident with Morena had not been the only one. He had to be more careful in the future, otherwise he risked losing his status and image as the perfect pupil and admired classmate. He ran his hand through his curly black hair and slid into his mask of the polite and helpful prefect.

When he finally approached Slytherin’s table, the students quickly moved aside to make space, everyone hoping he would sit next to them. But he headed for his gang. Avery, Lestrange, Nott and Dolohov were sitting in their usual places discussing holiday plans, while Rosier had joined his girlfriend, Marissa Blake, at the other end of the table. When Tom took a seat next to Avery, the discussion ceased promptly. They knew that Tom hated summer break, for he had no home to return to. Holidays for him usually meant spending two months in Wool’s Orphanage, surrounded by Muggles he despised. Before they could switch topic, Headmaster Armando Dippet’s magically magnified voice echoed through the great hall, ordering everyone to be quiet and to sit down.

“Dear students, yet another year has passed and I am delighted at the sight of happy faces and the sound of excited chatter in these halls. Therefore, it is most unfortunate that not all who began this year at Hogwarts are sitting with us today.”  
He paused, a sad expression taking hold of his features. Then, he continued, “I am talking about Myrtle Warren, whom, as you all know, has fallen victim to a terrible accident this year. I ask you therefore to join me for a minute of quiet commemoration.”

The hall was instantly cloaked in a coat of silence except for the muffled sobbing that originated at the Ravenclaw table.

Lestrange smirked and started to snicker but a piercing look from Tom muted him at once. It was imperative that no one else suspected his gang of anything that could potentially trace back to him. Why did he have to be surrounded by a bunch of morons?

After the minute had passed, the Headmaster went on with his speech, “A loss is a tragedy that we all must endure at least once in our lifetime. Especially in turbulent and violent times like these, I encourage you to share hope and spread kindness, to cherish your families and friends and wish you all a safe trip home. I can gladly announce however, that Hogwarts _will not_ be closing its gates and re-open as usual for the semester begin in September.”

With that, he left the stage and everyone applauded loudly, waiting for the food to appear. Seconds later, the room buzzed with excitement as the feast began. Tom did not fail to notice that – even though just moments ago, everyone had been stricken with sadness – now, the thought of Myrtle’s tragic death had simply been replaced by another, more cheerful one. They were all so frail. His gaze travelled across the richly decorated hall, where teachers and students were engaging in conversation or occupied with their full plates that were loaded with delicacies. Everyone was distracted. _Perfect_ , Tom thought, and decided to make use of the opportunity and leave the feast early, so he could rummage through the books in the restricted section once more.  He stood up and made his way to the exit, when he heard Avery call after him.

“Tom, where are you going? Dessert hasn’t even been served yet!”

Tom quickly turned around, replied, “Packing”, and left the hall.

 

The corridors were deserted as expected, though he did have to avoid Peeves on his way. When he picked up the familiar squeak echoing through the hallway, he swiftly hid behind a massive pillar and the ghost rushed past him. After all, Tom did not want to draw any attention to himself. Finally, he made it to the library, but when he entered through the massive wooden door, he noticed distinct sobbing, issuing from one of the old book shelves right next to the restricted section. Internally, he was torn between leaving the library again and sneaking past the person hiding out in here. In the end however, he did not get to decide, as a soft voice called out, “Who’s there?”

Tom gritted his teeth. This was not at all how he had planned his secret trip to the library. He usually avoided forced interactions that he did not get to induce and control himself. A slim Ravenclaw brunette suddenly emerged from between the book shelves and inspected him curiously. Tom decided that now he might as well keep up the farce before he left, seeing as he had no other choice than to talk to her. He quickly stood upright and folded his hands graciously behind his back. The mask was in place.

“I am sorry to intrude, I heard weeping and since I am a prefect I thought it was my duty to check what caused it.”

The girl moved closer, eyes still red, nose wet and slightly swollen. Tom was appalled. In a happier moment, she might have been beautiful by the usual standards – though he did not care about that anyways – however, in her current state she was an ugly, leaking mess.

He had to force himself to not take a few steps back.

“Well, it is not your duty. I came here for privacy, “ she answered -  rather rudely, he thought.

She acted as if he wanted to be here, when in truth, he even preferred the meetings with Dumbledore over emotionally demanding encounters such as this.

“I will leave you to it then,” he replied and moved towards the door. Anger flashing up once more, disappointed that he had not gotten what he came for.

But the girl called out to him before he reached the exit.

“I am sorry, it was nice of you to check up on me. It’s just… you know, Myrtle`s death…She was my sister…”

 _Oh no_ , Tom thought. This was getting worse by the second. Now he _had_ to stay, otherwise it would be considered rude. And he could not be sure that she would not rat him out to the professors, as neither one of them was supposed to be in the library on their last day.

He faked a sympathetic smile and – with utmost reluctance – took a seat at one of the empty tables.

She quickly followed his move and stared at him with an odd mixture of curiosity and …mistrust? Surely, he must have been mistaken. After a while, she started sobbing again and was babbling on about her personal tragedy. He did not even listen, he could not care less about that girl’s issues. His eyes frequently switched to the rope, separating the public section from the restricted one.  When he noticed the sudden silence, his gaze focused back on her.

Her dark blue eyes were now clear and her look was stern, almost triumphant.

“Liar!” She called out.

Tom, slightly baffled – though far away from showing it - offered her an innocent and warm smile.

“I am afraid, I do not know what you mean by that.”

“Well,” she said, “you haven’t been listening to a single word I’ve said. Distracted by the restricted section, I gather? You did not come here because you heard me, you wanted a book from the restricted section. You really are a smooth bastard Tom Riddle, aren’t you!” she hissed.

Tom was slightly taken aback. Usually, no-one spoke to him that way. What could she possibly know that lead her to act in such a way? He had truly been distracted, she had most likely just caught him in a bad moment and was offended. Her presence in the library was most inconvenient. Annoyance flashed over his face and for a split second, he thought she had seen it. But then she just stood up and continued to glare at him, her eyes narrowed to slits.

“You know who I am then?” He asked and cocked an eyebrow. “Well, then you have me at a disadvantage, you did not mention your name. And quite frankly, I do not take kindly to being insulted.”

His eyes rested on her face, fingers twitching, readying himself to draw his wand, just in case this went sideways.

“My name is Pria Warren. There, now you know my name. I believe I deserve an apology?”

Tom nearly lost his temper but he remained calm, though his tone was cold now.

“I apologise, Ms. Warren, although you are quite wrong. I was patrolling the corridors when I heard you sobbing, quite loudly, I might add. I decided to investigate the source of the sound and found you here. My interest in the restricted section is purely due to home work. I will ask professor Slughorn to write me a note next time I see him. Seeing that you clearly do not require my presence any longer, I will oblige and leave.”

He elegantly lifted himself off his chair and strode towards the exit. Once again, he heard her voice, this time stronger.  
,,I do not believe a single word, Riddle. You might act like one of us but you are not. I saw you the day Myrtle died, entering the second-floor bathroom. What _did_ you do there? I don’t know what you were up to just now, but I can tell that you’re lying. You are a rat among mice, and no one knows it, until it’s too late!”  

Tom did not hesitate for a second. He quickly drew his wand and muttered _Accio Pria’s wand_ and snatched it out of the air when it came soaring towards him. Pria, stunned and incapable of a reaction, just stared at him in confusion. He extended his mind, trying to see whether she had told anyone else about what she had seen, whether she had spoken to Dumbledore, her friends, her parents even… He had trained himself in the skill of Legilimency and had had several occasions to try it, most of which involved unsuspecting orphans. Pictures drifted up, emerged from the depths of her mind. He saw Pria watching him entering the bathroom. She was… alone. There were no other memories tied to this incident, apparently, she had kept quiet. _Good_ , he thought, and drew his presence out of her head. Before she had realised what, he had done, before she could even mutter a single word of protest, he cast a spell using _her_ wand.

 _“Obliviate_ ,” he spoke.

A white, smoke-like light issued from his wand and hit Pria, leaving her stunned for a second. Tom wiped off his fingerprints with a cleaning spell of his own wand and returned hers. When her gaze cleared, she looked up at him in complete confusion.

“What... what are you doing here?” She asked, her eyes widened.

Tom did not even blink. Instead, he smiled at her compassionately.

“I heard you sobbing and found you here, hiding out in the library. I must tell you though to leave the library, as it is forbidden to enter when the librarian is not present. Where should I accompany you to?”

She quickly dried her tears and stuttered, “I will find my way, thank you.”

“I would appreciate it though if you did not tell anyone,” she added hesitantly.

Tom inclined his head.

“Of course, I see no reason to tell anyone about such a minor violation of school rules,” Tom assured her in a soft voice.

“Thank you,” she mumbled with a scarlet glowing face. Then, she left the library and disappeared into the corridor leading towards the Ravenclaw tower.

 

As soon as she was gone, Tom re-entered the library and closed the massive wooden doors behind him. This exchange had been quite of a shock to him. Luckily, he was very skilled in the use of memory charms and had been able to delete both, the most current of their encounters and her memory of him entering the bathroom. He had been practising a lot, since he had expected to run into some difficulties along the way, so he had been prepared to use _Obliviate_ for quite some time now. At least he had thought far enough not to use his own wand, and, as the Ministry of Magic would not be surprised by use of underage magic at Hogwarts, he was quite safe.

However, the fact that she had been witness to him entering Myrtle’s bathroom was… well, that had been rather surprising. He would have to be more careful from now on. Suddenly, he heard chatter drifting over from the corridor outside the library and realised that the small time-window had closed, he had missed his chance to get the book that he knew he needed to fight his single, most powerful enemy: death. His obsession with immortality and the Dark Arts had driven him into the restricted section before. On rare occasions, when the librarian disappeared into her office for her “special tea”, he had scoured book after book but without success - until about a month ago. Rather by luck, he had discovered an old, faded volume of _Secrets of the Dark Arts_ , mentioning a Horcrux – a splintered soul deposit to render a wizard immortal - though it had never stated how it could be created. Apparently, the process involved magic so dark, that it was too gruesome to describe. However, Tom was sure, the restricted section would still prove useful in his search for further information, describing the procedure necessary. For he did not fear the consequences, nor the collateral damage that might be involved. Tom would come back and look for it, but not today, it seemed.

Quietly, he pushed the door open, then joined a group of bickering second year Slytherins and took up his prefect duties as if nothing had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 includes the train ride back to London, as well as a few flashbacks to his early years at the orphanage
> 
> Chapter 5 is termed "The Murder of the Riddle Family". I guess you all know what that's about.


	4. Memories of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter initially just for me, to get a feeling of how evil I want to portray Tom Riddle. In the end, I almost deleted it but finally decided against it. It does somehow reflect his inner conflicts and his early struggles which were partially present since birth and partially acquired over the years at the orphanage. So here it is. I hope you like it.

**Chapter 3**

**Memories of the Past**

Tom sat across a few third and fourth year Slytherins in a tiny, cramped compartment of the Hogwarts Express that was speeding through the abandoned Highlands. They were about half an hour into their journey, when Tom had volunteered to keep an eye on the younger students, as his fellow prefect was currently indispensably engaged elsewhere. Kelly Lebrowe was – of course – snogging her boyfriend in one of the empty compartments further down the corridor. How she ever made it to be a prefect was beside him. But then, it was not as if he had anything better to do and the less he had to interact with her the better. Tom dreaded the arrival and so the train rides back to Muggle–crowded London were never something he enjoyed. His brows furrowed and his dark eyes narrowed to slits, Tom glared outside the window and observed as hills and trees rushed past. Some of the younger kids were staring at him with big, blazing eyes and two girls kept whispering and blushing, whenever his gaze absentmindedly grazed their faces.

He had refrained from joining his gang during their train ride home. Especially Lestrange and Nott kept chatting about family and girlfriend issues, neither of which was of any interest to Tom. Additionally, it would have been terribly awkward when their parents awaited them at the station and they were caught between acting like the good and respectful sons they ought to be and maintaining their face in front of Tom. His goons would have had to introduce him to their parents, which, he knew, was something they were quite afraid of. If Tom was perfectly honest with himself, he preferred to stay in the shadows for now anyways. Unnecessary attention could be detrimental to his future plans, and, seeing as he was not from a pure blood family, let alone had any family at all, it would have been rather humiliating. He despised whenever the subject of his heritage was brought up, even though he prided himself upon the fact that he was the one, true heir of Slytherin. The world was simply not yet ready for him. For the time being, he had decided to keep his secret hidden and restrict his schemes to the school grounds of Hogwarts. 

Time was crawling and he felt as if he had been struck by a stunning spell, condemning him to an eternity of boredom and apathy. Finally, after several hours of excruciatingly boring travel, the Hogwarts Express arrived at London station. With a jolt, every student sprang to their feet, hurrying outside, screaming, chatting and laughing. Tom stayed seated in the compartment and waited for the train to empty itself onto platform 9 ¾. Kids in robes and carrying cages poured out of the crimson train that was steaming eagerly, as if it, too, had something to celebrate. Tom however would have given everything to simply remain seated in this empty compartment until the Hogwarts Express left London and carried him back to his _real_ home once more.

An unknowing bystander might have pitied the tall, handsome teenager, sitting all alone in an empty train, with no family and no friends to greet him and take him home. But Tom did not mind the solitude at all. His wish for a family of his own had never stemmed from the secret desire of intimacy or kinship. No. It had always been the lure of power, a family name that was well respected and not sullied by parents with non-magical blood. He did not wish nor care for love, for he had never experienced what it meant. Tom could not miss what he had never had. And so, after a few minutes of silent contemplation, he left the train in his Muggle clothes and strolled back to his childhood ‘home’.

He had no money to take the bus and since Mrs Cole did not know about the Wizarding world, she could not come fetch him from platform 9 ¾.  However, despite the long walk by foot, Tom still preferred to spend as much time away from orphanage as possible. His way home led through many dark alleys and small passages, which still bore witness to the Blitz Attack by German Airforce in 1940 and 1941. No one had cared to rebuild the smaller buildings, as they were not worth the effort. In whole London, the air was still thick with fearful anticipation, for the Airforce might return at any time to finish what they had started. By now, the Muggle war had invaded the Wizarding world alike, with many high-ranking members of the European Wizarding Community rumouring that Grindelwald might be the secret puppeteer behind Hitler’s attacks, using him for his own agenda to subject Muggles. Tom had no interest in politics, though he could sympathise with Grindelwald’s efforts to help wizards to their well-deserved position above Muggles and Muggle-born scum.

Dark clouds gathered in the sky, chasing away the few remaining rays of feeble sunlight. Thunder growled in the distance and it started to rain. Soon, Tom’s curly black hair clasped to his haughty features and his muscles stiffened under the unceasing stream of summer rain. When he finally arrived at the unwelcoming iron gates of Wool’s Orphanage, he was wet to the core. Despite the mild summer temperatures, Tom was slightly shivering under the weight of his damp, rain soaked clothes. Though he did not have to stay in the rain for long. Mrs Cole had been awaiting him for quite some time and, after spotting the familiar tall teenager, hurried right over to the gate, as to let him in.

“Welcome back, Tom,” she greeted him curtly.

Then, she added after shooting him a concerned glance, “Come on, hurry inside, or you’ll drown in those clothes.”

Tom knew she tried but her concerned look was undermined by the slightly fearful shimmer in her eyes that had nothing to do with Tom’s condition. Without a word, Tom followed Mrs Cole and climbed the withering stony steps to the orphanage. Curious faces appeared, pressed against the window glasses. But whenever Tom looked up, they disappeared hastily behind heavy curtains.

They all feared him. But it was a different kind of fear than the one he knew his followers felt. While his goons were well aware of what he was capable of, and admired him for his cruelty and magical abilities, the children at the orphanage were left to ponder as to who – or rather what - he was and what he would do if they displeased him in any way. An invisible smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. Mrs Cole and Tom stepped through the entry and he went straight upstairs to room 27, which had been his for as long as he could remember. Clara, a seven-year-old dim-witted girl, was playing in front of his room but hurriedly gave way when she spotted his pale, emotion-less face staring down at her, as he leaned motionlessly against the door frame. Within seconds, the corridor was empty. Tom dropped onto his bed, stretched out his long legs and stared up at the mouldy ceiling. At least no one dared to bother him. Though, it had not always been this way. His minded drifted to his early childhood memories. Blurry and patchy - mingled with images and feelings.

 

 

_Tom was two. Mrs Cole bathed Tom in a pot of water. The water was icy cold. Tom screamed. Mrs Cole’s fingers started to burn. She dropped him. Her face looked terrified._

 

_Noise. Children crying. Tom could not sleep._

 

_Tom was five. He sat at the dinner table, eagerly awaiting his meal.  They only got two full meals a day and most of the time, they were rather meagre ones. It was evening and the kids were hungry. Mrs Cole walked around the table, filling plate by plate. Finally, she arrived at Tom’s place and planted a spoon full of porridge onto his plate and went on to the next child. Theodore, three years older than Tom, made use of the opportunity of Mrs Cole’s turned back and greedily shoved Tom’s porridge into his own mouth, nearly choking on it._

_“Mrs Cole,” Tom stated with indignation, “Teddy ate my porridge!”_

_But Theodore was quick to respond._

_“He’s lying! He just wants a second ration,” he accused – and smirked at little Tom._

_Mrs Cole, knowing that Tom was a good liar, even at that age, sighed, and moved on._

_Tom’s stomach growled and anger flushed across his handsome, boyish face. Suddenly, the spoon in Theodore’s hand twitched and stabbed him right in the eye._

_Theodore cried in pain. Mrs Cole turned around. The kids were staring. Tom was surprised. Had he done that?_

 

 

_Billy wanted to play ‘catch’ with him. Tom was not interested. He did not like to play pretend. He did not understand the other kids._

_He did not like company._

 

 

_Miranda taunted Tom for being weird. Miranda’s foot got caught in a loose floorboard. She broke her ankle._

 

_Tom was seven. By now, several accidents had happened and Tom was sure that he had caused them, although he did not quite know how. The kids had started calling him freak. They avoided him except for the older boys, bullying him and beating him up when Mrs Cole was not looking. Billy Stubbs, Theodore Garland and Eric Wayne never ceased an occasion to ‘put the little freak in his rightful place’. Tom was sitting on the stairs leading up to the entrance of the orphanage, observing a large snake basking on the sun-warmed stone steps._

_“What are you ssssstaring at?” it asked._

_Tom was surprised._

_“I can understand you,” he replied excitedly._

_The snake tested the air with its long, split tongue._

_“Indeed, you can. And I can undersssstand you. Thisss isss unusual.”_

_Yes, Tom knew he was special. No one else could talk to snakes._

_“Oi, Billy! Listen, the freak has invented an imbecile language.”_

_Laughter. Fists. Pain. Anger._

_Eric winced. His eye was blood-shot. Served him right._

 

_A mouse climbed up the window frame._

_“Go drown yourself.”_

_The mouse fell._

 

_It was Christmas. Tom made Kathrin’s hair catch fire on a burning candle. It was fun. One of the better Christmases he had had. He stole one of her crisped locks, a keep-sake._

_Tom was nine. Billy still would not let him be. The kids just did not learn. But Tom knew now how to teach them. Billy played with his bunny. Tom was jealous. Mrs Cole would never let Tom have a pet. She disliked him. She tried not to let it show but Tom could see through her fake smile, just like she did not believe him anymore when he claimed to be innocent. Tom knew that she thought he was not right in the head._

_Billy caressed the fluffy fur of his bunny._

_Tom’s fingers twitched._

_The day after._

_Tom lured Billy up in the attic._

_Billy’s bunny was hanging from the rafters._

_Billy cried. Tom smiled._

 

_Tom was ten. The orphanage was on vacation at the beach. Tom preferred to be alone. He did not have any friends. All the kids were worthless, none of them could do what he could. He was special. Sure, they thought he was crazy, but they had no idea._

_He wandered off, explored the stony beach and nearby caverns. Mrs Cole saw him leave. Tom noticed her glance on his back. She hoped he would get lost and drown. Tom could see the pictures in her mind. He caught her staring. Her eyes widened in a moment of shock, she quickly looked away. She felt guilty and he knew it._

_Two younger kids followed him – probably out of curiosity._

_He climbed up a steep rocky cliff, knowing he would not fall. He could do a lot of things now. They followed him there. He went deeper into the cavern, discovering a hidden entry._

_Mrs Cole was not here to punish Tom for accidents she could not prove were his fault._

_He wanted to try something, wanted to see just how much he could do. The kids had not been prepared. He had scared them, made them see things, hurt them._

_It was just to try his boundaries. How far could he push them without breaking them? It was just an experiment._

_He did not feel bad about it. It was not his fault they were not capable to defend themselves._

 

_He had left no evidence after the incident at the beach. She knew it. He knew it. But there was no proof. Mrs Cole did not allow him to go on vacation with the other kids anymore. She talked about mental institutions and doctors. Did she not realise that he needed no doctor?_

_Who was he? Where did his special powers come from?_

_He wanted to know more._

 

 

_Tom was eleven. He despised the orphanage. He had decided to leave. He knew Mrs Cole would soon try to get rid of him, put him in a mental institution. He heard voices. A man, an old man, was talking to her in a calm voice. That man had to be the one she had called. She had finally done it._

_Tom felt rage but he could control it now. He had to wait and see._

_The man stood in the doorway._

_“Tom, you have a visitor,” said Mrs Cole, “Professor Dudelore, Dumblebore…well, I let you do it.”_

_She hick-upped. Mrs Cole was drunk. Again. Mrs Cole left._

_The man entered Tom’s room and stretched out a long-fingered, elegant hand. He was tall, with shoulder- long, auburn hair and piercing blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles. He looked …odd. Hesitantly, Tom shook his hand._

_“How do you do, Tom?” the man asked._

_Then, he added, as if to clarify Mrs Cole’s mistake, “My name is Professor Dumbledore.”_

_Tom eyed him suspiciously. Did the old hag truly think he would buy that?_

_“Professor? Is that like…are you the doctor? Did she call you to have a look at me?”_

_Tom observed the man. He would know when he was lying. He had a gift to spot lies._

_“No,” said the man._

_Dumbledore’s voice was calm, his eyes were scanning Tom’s face._

_Tom could not read the man. Odd._

_“I don’t believe you.”_

_Surely, he had come to take him away. Mrs Cole had finally managed to get him locked away. Hatred. He felt hatred against them all._

_“She wants me looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!”  
Anger had once more found its way into Tom’s mind. He tried to see the truth that hid underneath that smooth surface, spot the lie behind the watery blue eyes, tried to force the stranger to reveal his true intentions. But Tom’s glare had no effect on the odd Professor. Tom could not read him. This man was different._

_  
“Who are you?” he demanded to know._

_Dumbledore remained unimpressed, ever so calm._

_“I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I teach at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school – your new school, if you would like to come.”_

_  
_ _Tom hesitated once more. It disturbed him that he could not tell whether he spoke the truth or not._

_“I knew it,” he spat. “You’re taking me to an asylum! I knew it! You can’t kid me!”_

_Rage. Oh, that rage. He sprang to his feet._

_But Dumbledore was merely gesturing him to sit down and continued in the same, merry voice as before, “I am a teacher at Hogwarts, a school for children with special abilities –“_

_“I am not mad!” he proclaimed. _

_‘There it is’, Tom thought. He was sent by the madhouse to come fetch me._

_“I know that you are not mad,” Dumbledore replied in his eerily calm voice, “Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.”_

_This struck a chord with Tom. Still, he could not read the man’s intentions but his words had to be true. For Tom knew that he was special. This was proof. Finally, proof._

_“So…it is magic, that I can do?” he asked in admiration._

_Awestruck. Not by the idea of magic itself, but the notion that he, Tom, possessed this gift._

_“What is it you can do?” Dumbledore asked._

_And the man’s expression changed towards one of honest interest._

_Tom felt thrilled. Joyful. Excitedly, he told Dumbledore about his abilities._

_“I always knew I was special,” he concluded in a whisper._

_Speaking more to himself than to Dumbledore._

_“Indeed, you are. You are a wizard, Tom.”_

_Tom looked up into the bright, blue eyes, suddenly comprehending._

_“And you...you are a wizard too?” he asked._

_“Yes,” replied Dumbledore._

_Tom, once more distrustful, demanded,_ _“Prove it!"_

Tom opened his eyes, his mind still brooding over the memory of his first encounter with Dumbledore. It had been…most enlightening. Dumbledore had fulfilled his demand for proof and lit up the cupboard in his room, just to suffocate the fire again, without scorching a single thing. But then, he had forced Tom reveal his stolen treasures. Oh, Tom could have lied to him back then. Yet, he had chosen not to. Most wisely, in retrospective, as Dumbledore would have known if he had tried to lie. And who knew whether he would have allowed him to come to Hogwarts otherwise. Dumbledore had offered him a place at Hogwarts, had equipped him with the necessary papers, given him information and had told him about his abilities. Tom was thankful to the old man for that. Without Dumbledore, Tom would have lost it back then. He would have fled the orphanage. Though, the Transfiguration teacher had scolded him for his theft, threatened him with consequences and prosecution by the Ministry of Magic. The Hogwarts Professor had known already back then that Tom had dangerous character traits. A shame, really, as he had never been able to convince him of his ‘changed’ personality since. No amount of flattery and politeness could persuade Dumbledore that Tom was not the cunning little boy he had met in the orphanage. And it was that fact, that made it difficult for Tom to proceed with his plans at Hogwarts.

 

Tom felt torn, for he could not decide whether it was admiration or loathing that he felt for Dumbledore – probably both to some extent. Tom was sure that Dumbledore did not loathe him. However, most people would. But Tom saw himself as neither good nor bad. He did not differentiate between the two sides. There was him and then there was the rest of the world. Of course, he did classify people into different groups, as this was necessary to adapt his behaviour accordingly. The ambitious ones, seeking glory, were easily corrupted while the weak ones, seeking protection, were effortlessly charmed. However, Tom did not respect either of them, because they could be manipulated, they only saw what he showed them and - so he knew with absolute certainty - both would tremble with fear if they knew who he really was. Then, there were those - albeit rare - he could not corrupt nor charm. Those, who seemed immune to his threats, and it was them who angered him the most. The one and so far only person he knew to belong to the last group was Dumbledore. Although Tom had to admit, he was also the only person he remotely respected.

That mind-set of his eliminated every possibility of friendship, since his true personality did not allow for social bonding and his fake ones rendered false and weak bonds he did not value. This meant, that he had no respect for the lives of others, which, in turn, made it much easier to manipulate and torture. It was like a snake biting its tail. But aside from all the conflicted feelings he felt towards Dumbledore, he had to admit that this day, when the old man had stepped foot inside the orphanage, had been the best day in Tom’s (back then) eleven years of life. It had not only confirmed that he was different from all the other kids at the orphanage, that he was a wizard, but also, that he was a special wizard too. As speaking with snakes was unusual, even amongst the magically gifted. It had been the final confirmation for Tom, that he was born for greatness. It required now, that he investigated his roots, the origins of his pure-blooded maternal lineage. And thanks to the Hogwarts library, he knew just where to look first. He remembered the names as plainly as they were written on that yellowed piece of parchment. Marvolo Gaunt and Morphin Gaunt from Little Hangleton. Time to pay a visit…


End file.
